Poem

“One thousand three hundred ten and fifty years from the birth of Christ to this night and this is the second year since the coming of the plague to Ireland. I have written this in the twentieth year of my age. I am Hugh son of Conor MacEgan and whoever reads it let him offer a prayer for my soul. This is Christmas night. On this night I place myself under the protection of the King of Heaven and Earth, beseeching that he will bring me and my friends safe through this plague and restore us once more to joy and gladness.”

--- from a note in the margins of Seanchus Mór (or Great Ancient Tradition)

To This Night

Hand in hand
we sink to dirt floor,
light of the fire
leading our descent.
I count the seconds
to keep from screaming,
nudge my shoulder to your shoulder
to keep from fleeing.
Pray there is nothing
to this black night,
starless, cold, silent,
creeping horror around
every village corner.
I could laugh and echo
mindless matter to prove
my love for life and you
does not wane or give
to casual bright tidings:
I am a light, you are flower,
grow in the soil of my being
alive; this clarity doesn’t remain
fallow in each symmetrical tower
of brick and mahogany sublime
in a land with and without
instrumental design.